


Jon Dies at the End

by FlowerCrownOfPoppy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical suicidal ideation, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/F, Gen, M/M, gay ppl being soft & affectionate w/ each other? in MY apocalypse?? it's more likely than u think, i promise you the title isn't what you're thinking, there is character death in this so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:56:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23203168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlowerCrownOfPoppy/pseuds/FlowerCrownOfPoppy
Summary: Elias has won. With the Watcher's Crown finally complete, the Dread Powers are now free to wreak havoc in our reality.  Jon scrambles to reunite with his friends and find a solution to both doomsday and his rapidly fading humanity.The world may have ended, sure, but things are far from over.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Minor or Background Relationship(s), but it IS there - Relationship, like minor daisira i don't think warrants its own tag
Comments: 18
Kudos: 78





	1. It's the End of the World as We Know It

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy y'all. I've been going nuts over this podcast lately, so I wanted to commemorate the announcement of the season 5 trailer with my personal take on how the story could play out. Be warned, this isn't a fix-it fic or anything like that. There are trials and tribulations ahead. That being said things won't be all doom and gloom, so strap in and get ready for a wild ride. I hope you all enjoy it!

Jonathan Sims has seen better days.

Then again, so has the world, which is currently embroiled in an apocalypse so nightmarish it would give George Romero a run for his money.

“—on?”

Who is that speaking? The voice sounds familiar but Jon can’t seem to remember who it belongs to.  
  
"—on?!”  
  
He's a witness perched high above, absorbing every last gruesome detail: entire city blocks are swallowed by sinkholes lined with sharp teeth; families turn on each other and die with manic grins on their bloodied lips; the streets run red with raw, pulsating meat.

“— God’s sake, J—”

It’s horrific. It’s _magnificent_.

“ _Wake up!”_

A slap across his face rips him away from his omnipotent vision, away from the morbid ecstasy of consuming all that suffering. He comes to gasping and shoots upright, painfully aware of his lone human body and the bruises it’s incurred from . . . from something. Why does it ache? Where _is_ he?

“Wh-what? Where . . .” He slurs and fumbles with the words horribly, his tongue thick and unwieldy in his mouth like some sort of fleshy slug. Eugh. Poor comparison. 

It only takes a heartbeat for him to recognize the floor he’s currently laying on. It’s Daisy’s safehouse, godawful furniture and all, and hunched over him is a comfortingly familiar face.

“Martin.” Warmth leaks through his dazed state. Martin is here, he hasn’t run away. That must mean he’s safe, right?

Only he isn’t. Neither of them are and no one is, because Elias talked through him and _used him_ to —

Oh. Oh god. 

“Oh god,” Jon groans, rubbing at his face. “Martin I. I’m so, so sorry, I don’t —”

“What do we do, Jon?” Martin sounds _lost_ , more lost than he was in the Lonely, and that alone makes his stomach drop. “What the hell do we _do_?”

“I . . .” Jon sucks in air between his teeth. One step at a time, he’s barely conscious as is. “Just. Just give me a moment.” Deep breath out, deep breath in. Okay. “How long was I out for?”  
  
Martin draws back on his haunches, rubbing at his arms. “Couple of minutes, I think,” he says warily, “You were talkin’ about how you let them in. The Fears. Started laughing in this real messed up way and then just . . . tipped over. Fainted right there. I was so shocked I failed to catch you, sorry about that.”

“It’s alright.”

“Sorry for the slap too but. Well,” Martin hastily adds, biting his lip, “A few seconds after I dragged you back in here you were still out like a light but then you just started . . . giggling. Wouldn’t stop. I freaked out.”

That explains the lingering sting on his cheek. He rubs at it but can hardly fault Martin for doing so. He doesn’t want to think about what would’ve happened if he hadn’t.

“Like I said, it’s alright,” Jon sighs, turning his head to look over Martin properly. His heart constricts painfully at the fear clouding his eyes. Is he afraid of him? 

“I wasn’t myself. The Eye, it’s . . . I can feel it.” He draws up his knees, hugging himself in a vain attempt to self-soothe. “It's everywhere but also _inside_ me. I swear I feel what it feels and I can’t . . .” He swallows hard around the growing lump in his throat. “I won’t fault you if you run, Martin. If you leave me behind and just . . . try to get somewhere safe. Anywhere at all.”

“Where is ‘safe’, Jon?” Martin snaps, and he sounds more angry than Jon had been expecting, “Where the _hell_ is safe when every dark corner could have a spider in it, or some creepy sentient mannequin, or whatever? You’re part Omniscient Knowledge demon, you tell me.”

 _Demon._ For some reason that stings more than anything else and it must show on his face, because Martin immediately looks crestfallen.

“Oh god," Martin whimpers, "I’m sorry Jon I’m _so_ sorry, I didn’t mean that. I . . .” He runs a nervous hand through his curls, which are a proper mess now, biting at his chapped lips again.

“Shit,” he says in an exasperated exhale, “This has all gone so very, very wrong, hasn’t it?”

“You can say that again.” Jon's sniff is a bit wet. He uncurls and crawls forward on hands and knees, reaching out. “Hey. Look at me.”

Martin’s eyes are red rimmed behind his glasses. It’s impossible to tell exactly what he’s feeling, then, when Jon puts a hand on his arm, but at least he doesn’t pull away.

“I know this is my fault," Jon says with a pronounced gulp, "And I don’t know where safe is, or what to do just yet, but.” When he inhales it’s shaky but the words are blessedly steady. “I’m going to figure it out. _We’re_ going to figure it out, okay?”

Martin’s gaze searches his face as he scoots closer. Slowly he reaches out in turn, pulling Jon into a hug, and it’s so gentle that Jon’s taken aback by this even more than the anger. 

Here they are, up to their ears in the bloody _apocalypse_ , and all Jon cares about in that moment is how real Martin feels against him, the warm weight of his hands and the quiet rush of his breath. 

“Stop saying things like that.” Martin’s voice is muffled into his shoulder, so it takes him a moment to register what he said. When he does it only causes more confusion. 

“What?” Jon blinks in surprise, pulling his head back to look Martin over. “That we’re going to figure it out?”

“No.” Martin shakes his own almost violently, fist curling into the back of Jon’s shirt. “No, not that. The whole ‘I’ll understand if you leave me behind’ bit. Like you expect me to _abandon_ you all the time.” He abruptly tugs Jon halfway into his lap and Jon goes, too stunned to so much as feign protest at the manhandling.

“I’ve said it before, Jon, and I’ll say it every time you forget," Martin says, knuckles rubbing against the small of his back, “I’m not pushing you away ever again.”

Jon’s train of thought derails completely. He curls his arms around Martin and holds and holds and Beholds, and suddenly he knows what they need to do. His body goes rigid as Knowing flows into him, a trickle compared to the previous tempest that plucked him out of his own head.

"Daisy and Basira are alive," he says, resting his hands on Martin's shoulders, "And I know where to find them."

* * *

Jon’s not sure what he’s expecting to find returning to London.

Or rather, he knows exactly what to expect because he _Sees_ it the entire way, but he's still surprised by how intact it actually is. Despite the Spiral warping much of Westminster they're able to bring the car around back, making a beeline for New Scotland Yard before any malevolent monster can spot them. 

The exterior is . . . Not a pretty sight. Blood streaks the pavement and every window of the entrance is busted in. It appears more like the work of frantic rioters than any supernatural being but Jon's no fool. The stench of Corruption assaults his nose and nearly makes him gag.

"You're _certain_ they're in there?" Apparently Martin can sense it too, seeing as he's pinching his own nostrils shut and eyeing the station with no shortage of trepidation. 

"Yes. Unfortunately." Jon takes a step forward, scarf drawn up to his ears but eyes keen for any trace of human life. It's easier than ever to tap into that endless well of Knowledge, to pluck exactly what he needs from it. The urge to gorge instead of sip on it is a constant temptation, now.

He flexes his fingers as a bizarre sensation runs through them: a flood of static, like when a limb wakes up from numbness, only this is somehow more pleasant. Power, of a kind. 

"Jon . . . ?" Martin's voice is an anchor as always, pulling him back into the moment. 

"Huh?"

"I suggest we do something quick, it's not safe out here." Martin's gaze sweeps across the street, arms wrapped around himself and brow furrowed. They make their way over to the shattered entrance, sticking close to each other. "You're sure it's not a trap?"

"I don't think so." Realizing that sounds _far_ from reassuring, Jon clears his throat. "Yes. I'm sure. The Corruption here is old, relatively speaking."

“Right.” Martin doesn’t sound convinced but he’s not dallying outside any longer, it seems, as he brushes past Jon and through the broken windows. The sound of his boots crunching on glass is too loud for Jon’s taste but there's no point in fretting over it. He hastily ducks his head and follows suit, mindful of stray shards that could cut either of them.

The smell only gets worse as they slip inside the old Curtis Green Building proper. Martin makes a displeased choking noise and Jon groans in turn. They link arms, combined gazes sweeping for any hint of movement, but the lights in this place have long since blown out.

“I don’t like this, Jon.” Martin’s body is coiled tensely against his, prepared for anything. “Can you tell where they are?”

“I . . .” He swallows, trying to calm his breaths which are far more shallow than they should be. “It’s harder to think in here, to Know. I can try, certainly, but I’m . . . I don’t want to lose myself again.”

“You’ve got me.” Martin’s arm squeezes his own in reassurance. “Try. We can’t stay here for long.” 

Right then. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to close his eyes, but he needs to limit his own senses for this. Calm the mind, focus. All he requires is a drop of knowledge, not a flood. He can control what comes through the door. Breathe in, turn the handle, open it just a crack —

“Follow me.” Jon starts so abruptly that Martin’s tugged along with a startled yelp. His feet move of their own accord, a breakneck pace that poor Martin has to quickly adjust to. His steps aren’t as sure as Jon’s because he doesn’t know, _can’t_ know where the Corruption lies in wait or where their path is clear, but that’s alright. 

Jon follows the trail of its withered remains the same way bloodhounds follow a scent. The Corruption's been scoured beyond recovery by fire and gas and gunpowder. He sees it crystal clear now, a story all its own written in scuff marks and bullet holes.

When they finally reach the right door it's barricaded, so he knocks on it.

“Daisy, Basira.” He can See both of them jump upright inside their little safe house, weapons drawn. He Knows that they’re suspecting the Stranger is beyond that door, wearing a familiar face. Trying to lure them outside. “Please don’t fire at the door. I promise it’s me, Jon.”  
  
“And Martin!” Martin pipes up, nervous but hopeful. “Like Jon said, please don’t shoot at us, I don’t have superhuman healing powers or anything.”

"How can we know?” Basira's steely cold tone is unmistakable if muffled. “Been lied to by a lot of things we thought were people recently. You’re gonna have to prove it.”

“Alright, fine,” Jon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Would The Stranger know you’re currently wearing your purple hijab? The one with the boteh patterning on it? And that Daisy’s got dried blood all across her left cheek she’s scratching at?”

There’s silence for a tense minute, followed by the door finally creaking open. Daisy and Basira both look like they’ve been through hell and back again but Jon’s heart can only leap with relief.

“Bloody hell, Jon,” Basira says, flicking the safety on her gun, “I nearly emptied my entire cartridge into the door.”

“And I’m very glad you didn’t.” Jon manages a smile as Daisy pushes through, yanking him into a fierce hug.

“Thank god,” she huffs, stepping away just as quickly, “We’ve been through one crazy week.”

“Tell us about it,” Martin says, glancing around and clearly uneasy, “Can we have this little reunion outside? It stinks something awful in here.”

They're all in agreement about that and quickly leave the station behind them, navigating through a maze of abandoned car wrecks and tipped buses. It's far from quiet; screams and howls and inhuman cackling echo all around them, so they keep low to avoid attracting attention. 

Not that they could ever truly evade that omnipotent gaze in the sky.

“So let me get this straight,” Basira whispers, “Elias, who is actually Jonah Magnus, possessed you through a statement and used you to start the apocalypse.”

“That is essentially correct.” Jon’s taking the lead if only so he can motion when they need to stop. He doesn't like it but, well. It's not like he'd be any safer cowering behind someone else.

"And we need to go back to the Archives because . . . ?"

"That I'm not so clear on," Jon says, "Not yet, anyway. At this point I've long since stopped questioning my supernatural intuition. I just know it's where we'll find answers."

"Right," Basira grunts, clearly not convinced, "I'm not that's such a good idea, Jon. What with the Institute being controlled by the guy who controlled you, and all."

It's not exactly accusatory but Jon can't help but feel a twinge of defensiveness at that comment. 

“I . . . I tried so hard to resist it," he says, "To _not_ speak, but he overpowered me.” He worries at his lip as they crouch, using an overturned taxi as cover. “I’m so sorry. I realize how pathetic of an excuse this sounds but I’m not trying to excuse it, I swear. This is still my fault.”

Realizing that Daisy was right all along, that she should’ve killed him in the woods forever ago, it sits cold and heavy in his stomach. Nausea climbs up his throat as he bites back the urge to say it aloud; he doesn’t want them to think he’s fishing for pity, because quite frankly he doesn’t deserve it. There’s no time for the luxury of self-loathing while they’re still exposed like this.

“Bastard knew you’d be alone, Jon,” Daisy growls, careful to keep her voice low, “It happened. What matters is what we do now.”

“And unless killing you magically reverts this,” Basira adds, “There’s not much point in tossing blame around. We need to regroup and —”

“Wait.” Jon raises his hand, eyes shooting open with alarm. He Sees the thing bounding across Derby Gate at alarming speeds, preparing to turn onto their street, and he quickly yanks Martin down with him. His other hand slaps over the poor man’s mouth to muffle a surprised yelp.

Daisy and Basira both duck against the bus they’d been passing by, tucking in their knees and flashing Jon a pair of puzzled expressions. They don’t have to wait long for an explanation; telltale scuttling soon pierces the unpleasant background cacophony. It’s vaguely reminiscent of wind chimes, if wind chimes were made out of hollow wood and bone instead of metal.

Jon pulls his hand away from Martin’s mouth and presses a finger to his lips. This earns him an eye roll from Daisy — _no shit_ _—_ but a deafening _thud_ and metallic groaning quickly widens them in fear.

Something is on top of the bus. Something big, and hungry, and made of far too many limbs. Something Strange.

Jon can only be thankful in that moment that the others can’t See the way he does. They can hear the clattering of mannequin parts as it shakes out its massive head but they can’t see the construct’s face, can’t see how it’s adorned entirely in eyes made of glass and buttons and glittery plastic. They’re all fake but full of unspeakable malice.

Martin’s got his arm in a death grip, covering his own mouth now as he stares straight ahead. Sweat drips down the soft curve of his cheek and lands on his shirt.

There’s no subtlety with this one. It’s an amalgamation of horrific proportions, content to collect parts as it prowls London’s thoroughfare. Clearly it’s looking for more victims to add to its collection, a giggle burbling from its cracked chest as it scans the ashen horizon. God, Jon _wishes_ he couldn’t See how every toy eye moves in unison, how talons made of sinew and doll hands wriggle and dig into the bus like they’re poking hot butter.

If it looks down, they’re all dead.

He can’t let that happen. He _won’t._

Basira’s got her hand on her gun so he quickly shakes his head at her, mouthing one word: _wait._ He uses the next few precious seconds to slip into that place where his mind melds with Beholding, feeling the familiar surge of static rushing through his veins. He closes his human eyes, breathes out, and dips his hands into that well. 

All bodily sensation is swept away. He’s outside of himself again, watching from high above as these four poor mortals cower, their predator perched just overhead. Jon can spot clear lines of drool dripping from the porcelain chest cavity and the telltale glint of fangs tucked inside it. All those teeth, all those _eyes,_ and yet manipulating them is surprisingly simple. Almost effortless, really.

When the construct jerks its head down curiously, all it notices is the street.

It lets out something akin to a disappointed hiss, clacking and clicking as it considers where to hunt next. A distant car alarm quickly nabs its attention and it launches from the bus with terrifying strength, leaving a giant dent in its wake. One last distorted laugh rings out as it takes off in a flurry of organic and inorganic limbs, whipping around the corner and out of sight.

The others are already moving by the time Jon comes to. Martin’s hauling him along as they break out into a much more urgent pace, repeatedly asking about where the damned car is. He’s still too far out of it to offer a proper response and leans on Martin hard, trying to regain his faculties as best he can. He can just barely distinguish voices.

“What the _hell_ was that?” That's Daisy, clearly shaken.

“Don’t ask me. Just pray it doesn’t come back.” That's Basira, trying to act like she isn't.

“I thought we were dead." That's Martin, utterly stunned. "Like, proper dead. It looked right at us, didn’t it? Did . . . did Jon —?”

“Jon?”

Jon’s head is spinning. His knees knock together and vertigo nearly makes him fall to the ground. All he can do is wheeze out a slurred, “Hhhuh?”, trying to get his vision to stop swimming like it’s in an Olympic marathon.

“Jon,” Basira says, rounding on him,“I don’t know what you just did but we can talk about it later. Where’s the car?”

The world’s not so wavy now so he can thankfully make out the pier and beyond that, the London Eye. Landmarks are good. Landmarks mean there’s an orientation he can rely on. They’re close, if his memory serves him right.

“We’re almost there,” Martin confirms, “Had to park it a ways down on account of the uh . . . pileup.”

“Y-yes,” Jon says with a weak nod of his head, “Should be right — oh.”

“Shit,” Daisy spits, hands on her hips as she takes a couple cautious steps forward. “You _sure_ it was here?”

The car is gone — most of it, at any rate. What’s left are scraps of metal, a bit of the bumper, and one giant puddle of oil.

“Well,” Martin sighs, “Looks like we’re walking, then.”

* * *

Funny how some things stay the same at the end of the world. All of reality’s been twisted by the Dread Powers but somehow this place is still standing, even when the streets are chock full of horrors.

The Magnus Institute. The Eye's influence has twisted it into a dizzying amalgam of spires and mind bending architecture. Beyond it and out of view is Millbank Prison and its Panopticon, where Elias — or Jonah, rather — now sits upon his self proclaimed throne, comfortably Watching the entire world go to hell.

“So what are we looking for here, exactly?” Daisy's been hypervigilant every step of the way here. Maybe it's the Hunt but he's never seen her nose so keen, her gaze so sharp. Even as she speaks he can tell she's attuned to the tiniest change in their surroundings.

“I’m not sure yet," Jon admits, "All I know is that Elias is partly responsible for keeping the bridge between our realities linked. I might’ve opened it but he’s _keeping_ it open, if that makes sense.”

“That’s . . . ” Basira's clearly struggling to chew on that, expression turning grim. “So we have to kill him, then. Seeing as he’s gone and supercharged himself with every single Fear God or whatever, that seems like a tall bloody order.” 

"It is,” Jon sighs, “As it stands, Elias is currently unstoppable." 

“So what’s the solution, then?” Basira asks.

"It's simple, really.” Jon cranes his head to take in what’s left of the Institute. "I go inside."

Martin’s head snaps to him, expression twisting with disbelief as he says, “You’re _insane_ .”  
  
Jon knows. The look in Martin’s eyes would hammer it into his bones if it could.

Even now, he can still make out the logo on the glass doors. He can’t see what lies beyond them, though. Can’t See it, either. He turns his head back to Martin, offering a smile that’s entirely devoid of humor.

“I’m aware,” he says between gritted teeth.

“You do realize this is a suicide mission, right? Does anyone else see this is a suicide mission?” Basira’s composure is on the verge of snapping with something beyond frustration. Daisy is blessedly quiet but her gaze is keen, watching Jon’s every move.

“What do you think is going to happen in there, Jon?” Martin asks. It’s a genuine question in that uniquely Martin way, soft at the edges but hard at its core. “What is there we _can_ do?”

“I don’t know.” Jon bites at his lip, picking at the edges of his sleeve. It’s amazing the damn thing isn’t more frayed than it is. “My blasted patron doesn’t know, either. I just know that whatever’s inside might be enough to stop Elias and . . . "

He suddenly raises his head to look over each of them in turn. He’s pleading with his eyes, though what he's exactly pleading for he has no clue. 

“Well,” he continues a bit shakily, “it’s a well established fact that he used me to open the door. If anyone stands a remote chance of closing it then I’d say I’m most qualified.”

“No.” Daisy’s the first one to speak this time, stepping forward. “No, you are _not_ doing this, Jon. You’re not going in there alone.”

Jon’s faintly surprised that Daisy caught on before Basira, or even Martin, but the epiphany dawning on both their faces turns his stomach all the same.

“W - what? Jon, you —” The myriad emotions that fight for dominance on Martin’s face could put the Spiral to shame. His expression finally settles on anger, which is good, because Jon’s not sure he can handle anything else. “You’re not just insane, you’re being _stupid._ Do you really think we’re just going to stand here and twiddle our thumbs!?”

“I know that’s exactly what you’re going to do.” He hates how calm his voice is, how arrogant it must sound to everyone else, and he’d kick himself in any other situation for how their expressions all sour further. “Look, Martin. I know this seems like I’m trying to be a big hero here or something but —”

“Shut up.” Martin suddenly appears on the verge of tears. “Don’t interrupt me. You don’t get to _do that_ after everything we’ve done, everything we’ve been through together. This isn’t a goddamn movie, Jon. None of us are going to put up with some half-baked _martyr_ _plot_.” His voice catches in his throat and Jon really, really hates himself then, for the redness he sees in Martin’s eyes. For the way he’s clearly fighting with everything he’s got to hold it together and has been for a while.

Jon wants to pull him into his arms. Wants to shove his face into his hair and breathe it in, feel those soft curls tickling his nose. He respects Martin enough not to; he knows if he touches him now they’ll both shatter, and neither of them can afford that.

“Jon . . . “ Basira speaks up in the growing silence, “Is this really the only way? And why alone?” She seems wary, if the most accepting out of all of them. Good old Basira, always willing to consider the gravest choices without flinching. 

“Yes.” He breathes in deep, trying to deliberately feel every muscle between his ribs expanding as he does. “And it’s because they’re all in there. The Dread Powers. Every last one of them.” His attention falls on Martin again, who’s somehow paler than before. “You wouldn’t even count as an appetizer to them.”

Daisy lets out an indignant growl and her posture alone says, _try me._ He wishes so badly she could come. Her spirit alone could carry him through hell or high water.

“No," he continues, shaking his head, "they wouldn’t notice if they swallowed you whole, but they’d devour you all the same. They _will_ , if you walk through that door.” He shrugs his shoulders and raises his hands in a resigned gesture. “As for me, well. I haven’t been human in a while. They know why I’m here. They want to watch.”

“Watch you do what?” Martin’s not bordering on tears anymore but his gaze is still wet at the edges, panic bubbling to the surface. “Jon, just what the hell are you going to _do?_ ”

“I told you, I don’t know.” Frustration leaks through Jon’s tone but it’s not frustration at Martin, not really. Here he is, half fucking _eldritch_ _monster_ or whatever, and he’s got about as much of a clue as anyone else about what’s going on. “I just feel it. Whether that’s human intuition or Beholding's I couldn’t tell you.”

He’s reaching out before he realizes it. Martin’s hand meets him halfway and they’re touching, now, gripping each other by the arms. It should be awkward in front of an audience but Jon’s capacity to feel awkward about anything has long since flown the coop.

“This is ridiculous.” Martin huffs out an aborted laugh between his lips. “Completely, utterly ridiculous. The whole thing, Jon.”

“Yes.” Jon can only agree with that. It’s the truth but it’s also their reality, isn’t it? Reality’s often a ridiculous thing in his experience. “Yes, it is.”

“I’m going with you.” Martin’s voice has lowered an octave. The finality of it sparks a fresh wave of fear in Jon but before he can interrupt, Martin presses on. “I don’t care what’s waiting for me in there. I don’t care if I get torn apart or worse, I’m not — I can’t watch you walk in there alone.”

The way Martin’s voice cracks on _can’t_ is like a punch to the solar plexus and yeah, Jon’s pretty sure his heart breaks for the third time since this conversation started. His laugh comes out as more of a strangled bark than anything. 

“I’m sorry, Martin.” He’s sorry for a lot of things. He just hopes Martin’s aware of every single one because there’s no time left to make a list. “I have to do this.” He forces himself to break from Martin’s gaze to look over Daisy and Basira.

Daisy and Basira. He has so much to thank them for, so he does. He smiles at them in a way he’s pretty sure is confident, or at least he hopes.

“Thank you,” he says, “Both of you.”

“Oh, come off it,” Daisy snorts, but her lips quirk in a smile back all the same, “This isn’t some tearful farewell for our brave little soldier. Do your thing then get out. We’ll be here.”

Basira doesn’t smile but she does nod, a small salute of her own. “We’ll hold down the fort here for now. Any idea how long this’ll take?”

“Not sure,” Jon says, and that makes him uneasy too but uneasy is his default state of being now, anyway. “It’s not like I can die of starvation or thirst anymore, so . . . If I —”

 _If I don’t come back_ _—_

“If this takes a while, just go hole up somewhere," Jon finishes with a nod, "I’ll find you. Somehow.”

They all fall quiet again, considering the weight of this decision, the looming presence of the Watcher’s domain perilously close. It’s not safe here. They can’t stay forever.

“Jon . . . ” The way Martin’s hand curls against his collarbone makes everything beneath it clench tight with emotion. “You’re going to owe me _so_ _many_ vacations when this is all over.”

“Don’t I know it,” Jon says, and this is good. This, right here. He doesn’t need reality-bending power to know, to _feel_ Martin’s love coursing through him from that small point of contact. “I’ll take you somewhere sunny next time. Maybe Italy?”

“I think I’d prefer Spain.” They’re clinging onto the seconds, onto each other. “Heard it’s lovely around this time of year.”

Jon kisses him. It’s a bit frantic and distantly he can hear Daisy’s groan but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care at all, because Martin is _real_ and he’s _here_ and he loves him so very, very much.

Martin’s sob doesn’t escape from between Jon’s lips as he kisses back. Their hearts are both racing with the overwhelming need to be pressed together, to collapse into each other and close the world out.

Basira clears her throat and the moment’s over. Jon pulls his head back while Martin blinks. Have his lashes always been so long? Fluttery, ginger things, so delicate. So beautiful, in their own way.

Right, now’s not the time for him to be smitten by Martin all over again. Now’s the time for summoning every bit of courage he doesn’t have to do something that will probably (most definitely) get him killed. 

“Be safe.” Martin says it the way priests utter prayer. Like if he believes hard enough, it’ll become a truth of its own. Their arms don’t so much let go as slide away from each other, water rolling off of stone. “And for god’s sake, Jon, you're not bloody Rambo. Don’t get any grand ideas.”

“This whole thing is pretty grandiose, isn't it?” He quirks a brow at the smirk Daisy tosses his way. Basira's look is thoughtful but thankfully goes without comment. When their eyes meet he tries very hard to transmit a thought to her, because saying it aloud would only earn him another earful from Martin: _look after them for me._

Maybe she caught it, based on the jut of her chin. Or maybe he’s just projecting, who knows. With that he spares a few seconds to take in Martin one more time, hoping that if he stares hard enough then every contour and curve and freckle will be burned into his memory forever.

Turning around is one of the hardest things he’s ever done. Something tells him it’s far from the hardest thing he’s going to have to do very soon.

“See you on the other side, Jon,” Basira calls out, and he stops mid stride to look over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he calls back, trying to ignore the chill settling in his gut, “I’ll be seeing you all shortly, I hope.” That last part he adds much more quietly to himself, taking the first step of what is probably about to be one long and arduous journey.

The closer he gets to those unnervingly unchanged doors the less difficult it becomes. He thought it’d be the opposite but this place . . . it calls to him, now. Like a song humming in his bones, an itch in his marrow. A gentle tug that says, _welcome home._

“Jon!”

Jon realizes that he’s in a bit of a trance only when he’s broken out of it by Martin. Martin practically collides into him and then there’s strong arms wrapping around his middle, warmth and flesh and heat and oh god he’s about ready to faint, it’s all too much.

His arms shake as he wraps them around Martin in turn, shielding him from the hungry pull of the Institute. 

“Martin,” he chokes out, panic rising like acid bile in his throat, “You need to get back. Please, it’s not safe and I can’t — I can’t let you —”

Lips suddenly press against his own. With Martin’s momentum their teeth knock together a bit and it hurts but _god_ , does that bleed all the fear out of him. There's sheer desperation in it, the way Martin’s mouth moves like it’s trying to memorize every centimeter of his face by touch alone. There’s a naked devotion in it so encompassing it rattles him to his core. He surges forward in turn, adjusting the angle of his head so the kiss is less uncomfortable. 

He catches Basira stalking over out of the corner of his eye. In defiance of their inevitable separation he cups the back of Martin’s head and presses another kiss into his open mouth, swallowing the small moan that leaves it. They have mere seconds but dammit, those seconds will be _his_ and his alone. 

“Martin, I . . .” When they finally break for air he can’t help but hold on a moment longer. Martin’s cheek is so soft under his thumb, freckles bright from a flush of heat. He strokes it, affection blooming bright and giddy in his heart. “Thank you.” 

That damn tugging on every atom of his body is back, more insistent than before. His kin beckon with dark whispers and renewed vigor, maddening as siren song. He mentally tells them all to shove it. 

They both press together in one last feverish kiss before Martin reluctantly pulls back. Basira places a hand on his shoulder but she doesn’t need to. Martin willingly steps away from Jon, from the Institute, even though this might be the last time he sees either. Good riddance to the latter, at any rate.

“Let’s go.” Basira’s not unkind but she is firm, leading Martin away from the Institute’s front doors at a brisk pace. Jon can only feel a fondness for her as she does; she’s protecting Martin like he hoped she would. That’s all he can ask for. That’s all he wants.

They don’t say any more goodbyes after that. The whole affair would be far too maudlin if they did, though he does catch the glint of Daisy’s eyes one more time before turning around.

The Institute’s doors open silent as death, expectant and hungry. Like a maw waiting to devour the human part of him, if he wants to wax particularly grim poetic about it.

Jon willingly steps inside and tries to ignore how the door snapping shut sounds like teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession, I've never actually read John Dies at the End. The fic title being a reference to it is a surface level joke at best so don't think too hard about it.


	2. Fear In Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say the journey's as important as the destination. Jon wishes it wasn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suggest listening to Fear In Me by Louis Mattrs for this one. Also, warning for one brief mention of suicidal ideation. Nothing happens as a result of it.

This was a bad idea. 

Jon knew it was a bad idea from the start but the deeper he goes the more readily that becomes apparent. Fear chokes the light in this place, warping the corners of his vision and making his heart race at the tiniest echo of skittering or shuffling. At some points he's certain he's gone in a circle but the rooms are always slightly different, just enough to make him question it. It's always too dim to tell. 

Yeah, he's being toyed with. It's getting old very, very fast, so the next time he enters a room that looks _almost_ like the lobby he grinds to a halt. There are mannequins in this one, lanky things that sit poised on the chairs as if engaged in pleasant tea time conversation. It doesn't take a genius to know they're very much alive. 

"If one of you doesn't give me some bloody directions," Jon growls, seething with irritation, "I _will_ pluck it out of you. And I'll make it hurt."

No response from the mannequins. Figures. Being intimidating was never exactly his forte. 

He's about to take a step forward when he senses a shift behind him, a brief rush of cold air at his nape. He doesn't even need to turn around to know it's Helen; he can taste the Spiral on his tongue, feel its maddening energy spark through his synapses with maniacal delight.

"So kind of you to join me, Helen." Jon doesn't want to turn his back on the mannequins but the prospect of leaving his back exposed to _her_ is even less appealing. Rounding on his heels he's greeted by that eternal too-wide grin, the one that never seems to fit on her face.

"Archivist," she drawls, fingers tapping against the frame of her door. It stands impossibly detached from anything else, emitting an eerie glow. "So nice to see you. How goes your little hero's journey, hm?"

"I'm not in the mood for this," Jon groans, resisting the urge to rub at his eyes. They ache as badly as his head but he doesn't dare close them now, not even for a second. "Are you here to mock me or take me where I need to go?"

"Neither." _Clack clack clack_. Those nails, longer than before. Her grin, now pushing into the space beyond her ears. "And you are. Whether you want to admit it or not."

"What?" The ire in his voice drains somewhat at that implication. "What, do you think I'm doing this to myself?"

"I know you are," Helen says in that infuriatingly certain tone of hers, "Or did you forget what Elias told you? You _are_ the Archive. In a way, you're walking through your own body right now."

That's a concept he's not sure he can comprehend in either a mental or emotional capacity. He's halfway through raising a finger to emphasize his protest when it quickly dies on his tongue because. Well. She's right, isn't she? He's never been particularly good at confronting his emotions or even realizing they're there in the first place. Now that they can apparently manifest in the world it's no longer something he can ignore.

"You're saying that I'm getting in my own way," Jon says slowly, turning it over and over again in his mind. “Warping my own path, obscuring it from my sight."

"That is precisely what I am saying, yes." Helen's only a meter away from him now, though he doesn't remember her moving at all, and her arm twists in ways it shouldn't as her finger jabs at his chest. "You talk such big game about your noble sacrifice, about what you need to do, but tell me: do you actually _want_ to?"

Jon's poor adrenal gland is terminally overworked at this point. His heart throbs painfully in his chest as he swallows, Helen's question rattling around his brain. 

"I . . . " 

Helen's laugh reverberates and echoes in a way that consistently defies the law of physics.

"Need and want are two very, very different things, are they not?” Her voice is far too close for comfort in one ear, then the other. She hasn't moved. “ You don't _want_ to go where you need to be to do what you have to do, and so you don't."

Jon's head is spinning. He rubs at his temple in lieu of his eyes, teeth gritted to block out the ache sharpening into a migraine. 

"So what?" he snaps, "Will I just keep wandering this place until I decide I _want_ to, or whatever?"

Helen hums in a way that seems almost thoughtful. Almost. She's at her door again, head tilted at entirely the wrong angle. Jon can't remember her heading back to it at all. 

"I suspect so." _Clack clack clack_ , go her nails on the frame again. "No one can make you go, Archivist. You must be your own guide." 

"Right." Jon's voice is deeply bitter. Helen's grin settles within the confines of her face in response, door creaking open once more. 

"Don't be so glum," she says, "I have every bit of faith you'll figure it out eventually. Though that might be a long, long time from now. Either way I'll _thoroughly_ enjoy watching."

Her laugh is the last thing he hears when she shuts the door behind her, and then he's alone again. Almost. 

Jon sighs and rounds on his heels to face the mannequins. Their heads are all turned to him now. One of the poor sods is impaled on the table, blood pooling on the mahogany and dripping down the sides. He doesn't even have it in him to be afraid at this point. 

"You enjoy your little horror show," he says, walking past the gory scene to the hall on the left _,_ and he _swears_ one of the mannequins lets out a giggle in response. Right, no need to overstay his welcome. He leaves before he has much time to ponder it. 

This hallway smells faintly of the earth. Plant rot and soil, an all too familiar aroma he recognizes from his time in the coffin. Gradually, ever so subtle, the Buried presses in on all sides. It's trying to bind him in place, trying to crush the willpower out of him. Trying to stop him. 

The Buried is here because he's going the right way.

Jon stops walking and takes a deep breath, trying to expand himself beyond those 4 walls, beyond the trembling confines of blood and bone. Beyond fear.

“I’m scared,” he admits to himself, “There’s no denying that. I don’t know what I’m going to find in this place, or what it’s going to cost me, and I don’t really want to find out. ”

The words are tumbling out of him the more the walls press in. The air is tepid, he realizes, and he swears he can sense each ton of earth looming overhead, eager to flatten him into nothing at all.

“I don’t want to die or become a monster.” He’s starting to have to hunch over a bit as the ceiling grazes his head. “No one does, except for Elias maybe. ” 

That gentle tug still pulls at his mind. It's elusive and maddening and woven so deep into his very being that he wants so badly to punch something. No matter how hard he genuinely _tries_ , nothing ever goes according to plan. There’s no relief from the hum inside him, or the narrow hallway narrowing further and further until he’ll be stuck inside it again and trapped and utterly useless to the world. Useless to himself.

A spark of rage ignites in his chest. He holds onto it, uses it to force his legs to keep moving even as the space around him keeps shrinking.

“But that doesn’t matter, because what I _do_ want is so much stronger than that.” Jon has to get on his hands and knees, now. He knows how this’ll go and still he crawls forward, because there’s no going back and hasn’t been for a while. 

“I want the world to return to some semblance of normal. I want people to look up and see clear blue skies or clouds instead of giant bloody eyeballs. I want Daisy and Basira to move on with their lives and do something that doesn’t involve the supernatural. I want Martin to —”

His breath hitches in his throat, partly because his ribs scrape against stone and partly because of the sudden affection that overcomes him.

“I want Martin to be happy," he whispers, "More than anything.”

He manages to maneuver his arms forward, dragging uncomfortably against the sides. There’s no air left in here and somehow that’s fine. He doesn’t need to breathe, really, not anymore.

“All of that is so much more important than me.” Jon shouldn’t be able to talk without air but he talks anyway. “So much more important than any desire I have to cling to this dwindling fucking scrap of humanity I’ve got —” He sobs and even that hurts. So much pressure bearing down on him, everywhere. He can’t really move anymore but his fingers press against something soft and yielding. Soil.

“Whatever the price is, I’ll pay it.” His fingers press in further, starting to dig. “I _want_ to pay it, if it means there’s a chance this might finally end. If it means Martin will see the sun rise again.” He digs with a renewed fervor, digs until there’s dirt in his hair and his mouth and his eyes. His hands are cramping horribly.

“So show me the way. Let me _in_.” He is more than this body, more than blood and flesh and bone. The static inside him is stronger than ever and through him it sings, shapes, commands: “ **I open the door**.”

Jon's hands pierces through soil into empty air. With a few more desperate tugs he pulls himself free and is tumbling, free falling —

He lands in an undignified heap on the ground and everything hurts again.

The static fizzles out like a rubber band snapping directly inside his head. He's not the Archive, now, he's just Jonathan Sims, sore and bruised and heavily seasoned with dirt. 

"Ow," is what he finally wheezes out. He rubs at his head and draws himself into a proper sitting position, trying to get his bearings. 

What he does see utterly boggles the mind. An internal voice tells him that this used to be his own little section of the Archives, the same where he recorded so many statements. Spent so much of his life. Fell down the rabbit hole of paranormal conspiracy and killer puppets.

That's not what he sees, though. 

What he sees is a chamber so massive that he can't even make out where the other end is, shrouded as it is in darkness. A domed ceiling opens to the sky where the Ceaseless Watcher gazes for eternity on the nightmare now cradling the planet. The chamber's completely empty save for —

A fresh wave of dread makes the breath hitch in Jon's throat. There's a staircase in what he can only assume is the center of the chamber. It's a simple thing carved from stone, appearing as if it was hewed from the ground by the hands of a titan, and it spirals all the way into the sky. When he squints he can just barely make out where it ends, directly under the monstrous gaze of the Eye.

The Aperture. He Knows its name the second his gaze rests on that sliver of a platform, perched so impossibly high above. 

"Magnificent, isn't it?"

Jon shouts in alarm and practically launches himself into the air. It's Simon Fairchild, his infuriatingly amused grin unaffected by Jon's outburst. 

"My, hello to you too, Jonathan," he says cheerily, "It's been a while, what with the apocalypse and all."

His grin remains as he cranes his head, a twinkle in his pale eyes as he takes it all in. 

"As I was saying, what a stunning sight. To be suspended atop the world, so close to the incomprehensible power of a god and but one simple misstep away from falling . . . " Simon sighs in an almost dreamy way. "Makes me a bit nostalgic."

Jon sputters for a moment. Half formed words die in his throat and he quickly gives up, taking a deep breath to regain his faculties. 

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" His voice sounds as dry as the soil he’s still shaking out of his hair.

Simon's hum is lighthearted and thoughtful, cane tapping against the floor. 

"I'm surprised you don't Know already," he says, "This _is_ your domain after all."

"I don't—"

Jon pauses and turns his head. From the darkness many more figures step out. Some look more human than others. Some faces he recognizes, others he doesn't. He Knows them all the same. 

He can only count his blessings that Jane Prentiss isn't among them. 

"Hello, Jon." Oliver's eyes are the kindest of all of them, though that's not saying much. Still, he's the only one that bothered to say hello, so Jon awkwardly returns the courtesy.

"Hi. This is, um. What are you all _doing here_ , exactly?” Jon’s gaze flickers between them all. “Come to take turns torturing me or something?"

"Tempting," Jared Hopworth growls, rage boiling in his tone the same way it boils beneath his shifting skin. Jon knows he won't act on it, though he’s not sure why. "Truth be told nothing I could do will compare to what you're about to do to yourself. No, better to watch." 

Whatever Jared's alluding to, it's not sinking in yet. It should but it's _not,_ and how is that possible? He's the avatar of bloody knowledge, a living record of terrible secrets, the —

"I must say, Jon." That's Jude speaking, her sneering smile as cruel as the first time he met her. "I've seen people destroy themselves in all sorts of delectable ways, but you? The utter _obliteration_ you're about to inflict will feed me for centuries." 

Jon swallows hard, gaze frantically shifting between all of them. These avatars – who aren’t people anymore, not really, and in any other circumstance would be tearing him apart for fun – they all just … Stand there. Staring at him with a morbid fascination he doesn’t like at _all_. 

“I don’t understand.” That sentence practically leaves him in a squeak which he’s not proud of. 

“Classic Watcher.” Annabelle’s voice is deceptively pleasant, smooth as silk weave. “Withholding information just to inflict the maximum amount of terror." 

Jon’s mouth moves uselessly for a couple seconds before his entire body shudders and oh. Oh no. He _Knows_ what they’re talking about, now. Why they’ve all gathered here, why they haven’t made a single attempt on his life –

“No,” he chokes out, tone flat with shock as Beholding wraps itself around his overtaxed mind. He clutches his head as it splits from pain, from trying to resist the flood of truths wracking his conscience. _“No.”_

The truth is this: very shortly he’s going to march up those stairs. He’s going to reach the top of them. He’s going to stand on that platform and gaze directly into the Eye, and it’ll gaze back. Then he’ll offer himself to it, to them _all_ , and they’ll climb inside and hollow him out and if he’s lucky, they’ll both cease to be.

From Archive to Vessel.

Jude’s laugh reaches him from far, far away. There’s a poisonous, blinding terror that lances through his heart, spreads its numbing poison through the rest of him until he’s shaking and utterly drained.

He knew, is the thing. He Knew the second the Institute was within view but he didn’t _want_ to, because if he did then he never would’ve made it here. So he hid it from himself, Buried it deep so he could —

“Careful, Jude, don’t poke him too much now. Poor boy looks about ready to fall into a fit of hysteria.” Simon’s voice is as distant as the rest but it grates against Jon’s ears, the soft whine of a mosquito, a fly, something he needs to _crush._

“Look at him, though,” she snorts, “he’s —”  
  
 **“Shut up.** ” Jon's vision splits, multiplies. Jude’s suddenly not laughing anymore, her mouth forcibly snapped shut. 

Jon can’t feel his legs when he pushes himself up from the floor. There is a rage building within that does and doesn’t belong to him.

“Both of you, I don’t want to hear another _goddamn_ word.” 

A few of the avatars are looking at him differently. Hell, even Simon’s quirking a brow. It’s curious rather than fearful but even that doesn’t slow Jon’s momentum, this _fury_ propelling him.

“You’re right about one thing, Fairchild.” His voice sounds _wrong_ , the way tape scratches and distorts when it’s damaged, but the words flow easy and smooth from his mouth. “This _is_ my domain. You all barged into _my_ home without wiping your bloody feet, so either say your piece or _get out._ I won’t entertain lowly vultures.”

“Temper temper,” Anabelle says softly, though she seems even more interested than before, “I dare say you’ve got me beat in the eyes department, Jonathan.”

Her words give him a moment's pause, in which the rage finally settles into something more muted. More human. More him. 

"I . . . "

"Say no more, Jonathan." Simon Fairchild raises his hands in a gesture of peace somehow utterly devoid of genuine placation. "You know me, I'm perfectly content to watch from afar." The grin on his mouth twitches a hair higher and with a rush of wind he's gone. 

Jude vanishes with a malicious chuckle and the rest follow suit. All except for two. 

Anabelle still watches Jon with that placid expression of hers, hands politely tucked at her front, the tilt of her head as precise as the rest of her. Expectant. The silvery strands of the Web are poised around her, gently flowing in the air. 

"What do you want," Jon asks flatly. The distortion in his voice is gone.

"What you seek to do is impossible." There's a dry amusement in her tone and the way her lips pucker a touch. "You'll only get yourself killed yet you try anyway. What a truly _curious_ mission." 

The implication in there's as obvious as the Web allows itself to be. Jon's jaw tenses in a grimace. 

"You think I'm hiding something from you." 

"Perhaps." The faint clicking of her arachnid companions flutters in his ears. "Though perhaps not. What little human remains in you certainly isn't."

It's a silken barb that jabs somewhere between his ribs but the pain is dull at best. What does it mean to be human anymore, really? 

"If you're looking to strike a deal then I'm afraid I've nothing to offer." Jon doesn't turn his back yet. It may be his house but danger is still danger. 

"On the contrary, you have everything to offer," Anabelle says, smile wicked as sin, "In the impossible chance your plan actually succeeds."

Always scheming, the Mother of Puppets is. 

"Here is my offer to you," Jon growls, stepping forward slowly, "Leave now and I won't consume what few nightmares remain inside that cobweb-riddled body you call a host."

Anabelle's curtsy conveys the tiniest hint of irritation. 

"Suit yourself," she chuckles, voice laced with venom, "Enjoy your little march to the gallows."

She's gone in a blink, leaving Jon to stare down one last avatar. Oliver looks more tired than before, if that's even possible. 

"Last chance, Jon," he says, "The death I could give you will be infinitely more merciful than anything you find up there." 

Jon shakes his head without hesitation. 

"I . . . Appreciate the offer, Oliver, I really do," Jon says, and surprises himself when he means it, "but I've come too far to accept easy solutions that only benefit myself. Please understand that, if nothing else."

"I don't," Oliver sighs, looking Jon over with something like sympathy. Maybe it would’ve been a lifetime ago. "Goodbye, Jon. For the last time."

Jon is finally alone in the chamber. He turns to the staircase and lets out a heavy sigh. 

This is going to _suck._

He approaches the thing cautiously, as if it might sprout fangs and leap for his throat, but nothing happens. Absolutely nothing at all. It's just a spiral staircase, winding high into places it shouldn't be able to reach in a room that shouldn't exist. 

"Well Jon," he whispers to himself, "Here you go." 

He's not sure what he's expecting when he cautiously places his foot on the first step. Fire, maybe? Perhaps a thousand whispers of arcane knowledge crawling into his mind, archaic energy flowing through his veins? There's none of that, though. The stairs are solid. They're just stairs. 

The climb will take a while. It feels like his life should be flashing before his eyes right now, or his head should be swimming with philosophical musings, but there's none of that either. His mind is blank. His steps are steady. 

Until he spares a glance down, of course. He's only been ascending for a couple of minutes but already the ground is precariously far below him. He grips the railing tight to fight off a brief wave of vertigo, swallowing hard. 

"Right, Jon," he mutters to himself, "No need to fall to a premature end off the staircase from hell. No, that would be too embarrassing." 

Irritation returns to him about this entire situation. 

"Far less embarrassing to march right up to a giant bloody monster eyeball and demand an audience with it." Rambling to himself is helping, at least. It makes it easier to pretend that he can't just walk back down the stairs and cower in the corner like a child.

"Can it even hear? Does the Eye have ears?" That train of thought is at least mildly entertaining for the next minute or so. He's never felt more human than he does now, like this body is all he is. A breeze brushes against his skin as he ascends past the lip of the Aperture and oh, he’s _really_ high now isn’t he?

He grips the railing again, pausing for a moment. Don’t think about it, don’t look down, just _don't._

Maybe it’s his imagination but he swears he can hear the faintest laugh carrying across the breeze.

“Oh fuck off, Fairchild,” Jon shouts, voice quickly swallowed by the wind. It’s satisfying to let it out if nothing else.

Looking up his sense of stability fairs no better. The Beholding stretches so far he can’t make sense of where one Eye ends and another begins. His mind spins with a potent cocktail of terror and exaltation and his stomach churns so badly he doubles over, digging his knuckles into his temples.

Right. Won’t be doing that again.

After the nausea passes he continues his climb, trying to shake off the emotions at war within himself. Being this close to Beholding, to his patron, it’s . . . maddening, to say the least. The closer he draws near the more aware he is of his frail human existence but beyond that is . . . something more. That same tug from before only stronger, beginning as a pressure behind his eyes and in his teeth.

He grits them and keeps climbing. Don’t think, don’t look down, just one foot in front of the other.

It’s impossible to not see the whole horizon from here. His hand never leaves the railing as his heart pounds rabbit-quick. The Calling is a patient but steady thing, inevitable and insidious, but it never gives him the mercy of giving up control. Every step he takes is his own. Each one is a conscious act.

He’s within view of the platform now. All at once his mind conjures an image of himself simply leaping off the stairwell, right there, plummeting to a painful but far more merciful end.

Jon won’t do it. He never would, never _could_ , and maybe that’s how he wound up here in the first place, attempting something utterly impossible despite everyone knowing it is, Beholding knowing most of all. And yet —

And yet. The one thing the Eye Knows and will never _understand_ is this: 

Jonathan Sims is one stubborn bastard.

He’s certain he’s about to faint when he finally reaches the platform. Up here the wind whips at his clothes and howls, reality itself bending in the proximity of the Ceaseless Watcher. Jon realizes with a growing dread that the howling is actually a cacophony of distorted screams.

Each step he takes to the center is agonizingly slow. Each step is a monumental fight of willpower unto itself.

When he’s finally there, finally perched directly under it, he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Breathes in another deeply, savoring it.

 _Well Jon,_ he thinks, _Here goes everything._

“Look at me.” He says it but the words feel pathetically small, devoured by the chorus of terror his gluttonous patron feasts on. Not a single Eye so much as twitches in his direction.

If there’s one thing Jon can’t stand aside from interdimensional horrors, it’s being ignored. He draws up his shoulders and tilts his head to the sky, fists stiffly pressed at his sides.

“I said **look at me.** ”

The Watcher looks. A hundred piercing gazes are suddenly upon him, a thousand, _countless._ His mind explodes with static, with the weight of that unfathomable voiceless will bearing down on him. Were he still human he probably would’ve died screaming right there but he's courted Death and endured the crushing weight of the Buried twice and dammit, this will _not_ be the thing that breaks him.

“You Know why I’m here,” he continues, staring back and willing his legs to stop trembling, “But you’ve always Known, haven’t you? The moment I chose this path you only had to watch and wait.”

Beholding offers no response. It doesn’t blink, doesn’t move. It lacks the sentience of an individual to do any of those things, though an approximation of a _yes_ does enter Jon’s mind as more of an impression than any meager word.

“I am the Archive.” His nails dig into his palms hard enough to leave pale crescents. “Every incomprehensible act of cruelty, every life extinguished or mind twisted by your influence, I record it. Store it. Feast on it, and in doing so feed you.” He tilts his head at the thing that has no name but is given many, feeling so very, very small, and weightless. He might be floating, he’s not sure.

“But I’m meant to be so much more.” His voice contains a growing wonder that curls darkly in his lungs. It spurns him on, percolates sweet as sugar water in the deepest recesses of his mind. Do the words come from him or his god? He no longer knows. It no longer matters.

“I will house you,” Jon says, voice rising above the wind, “You that Watches, and Bleeds, and Twists, and Weaves; you who lurks in the Dark and brings Rot and Terror and Ruin, I will _become_ you.” The air’s charged with a horrible anticipation that makes his blood sing and his head spin with maddening exaltation. He offers himself with a mad grin, arms outstretched and throat bared to the beast. 

“Join me,” he shouts, “Become one with me. Make me, make _us_ whole!”

There’s a single beat between the wild thumping of his heart where he wonders if he’s made a mistake. That the Eye didn’t hear his (incredibly) dramatic declaration, or did and didn’t care, his words meaningless and hollow.

But only for a moment.

The next second all the Fears are _there_ and then they’re inside him and he can’t think about anything anymore.

Jon understands what Jude meant by _obliteration_.

He understands what Oliver meant by _mercy_.

And then he’s howling because it hurts in ways he didn’t think were possible. He no longer knows up from down, left from right, can’t conceive of anything but white hot blinding _agony_ and when he thinks he can’t take anymore it just hurts a different way but more, and _more,_ and he no longer has the lungs left to scream or the tear ducts to cry and _pleasepleasepleasegodletmediekillmeIneedthistobeover_ —

_I nee̸d̸͛ —̴̖͗_

**W̷̘̐̍͛E N̷̒͋EE̵̚D̶͖̀̚ _—̶̱̓_**

**_We._**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a personal crisis occurred today so I might be a bit slower than expected pushing this out. Thanks to everyone who's commented and left kudos on this so far! There's a solid couple chapters left to go.


	3. Fear Itself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The impossible happens. Martin makes a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been a real doozy to write. Rough couple of weeks aside there's a lot going on in this section, it's so much more exposition heavy than the previous chapters. For the sake of my own sanity, I'll be splitting this up into two chapters instead. This should help with pacing and keep everything from feeling too rushed.

Jonathan Sims dies.

Fear as the world knows it dies with him.

* * *

One second Martin's standing, the next he isn't. A wave of vertigo knocks him off his feet, ripping the breath from his lungs, and that's for the best because a moment later he hears the scream. Martin's heard prey animals before, the horrible wailing of a rabbit in its death throes — once, he even made the mistake of clicking on a video of a car accident, and every second of that clip haunted him for months. This is _so much worse_. It's a howling gale that pierces his ears and drills into his skull and stays there. Some primal part of him knows that this is the sound of a living soul being meticulously unmade, _taken apart_ atom by atom, while being conscious for every second of it. 

Then it's over. When he's no longer blinded by terror he pushes himself to his feet and wills the world to stop spinning. He's running before he even even understands why, and then when he does he runs faster. He thinks he might be yelling but can't hear the words over the ringing in his ears. A weight collides against his back a few seconds later, dragging him down, shouting something he can’t understand because that was Jon, he knows it, he _needs him_ and —

“Are you even listening to me!?” Basira sounds as incredulous as she does rattled. “For f— Stop, you’re going to get yourself killed!”

Daisy's racing over now, hoping to be another voice of reason, but Martin’s still too shellshocked to process anything beyond the overwhelming desire to rush inside and. And.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do. He just has to do _something_ before despair freezes him in place, before he accepts what he already knows.

“Let me go, dammit! We have to, to find Jon and—” He lets out a hiccuping sob, hand slamming on the concrete so hard he’s pretty sure something fractures. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”

“Martin . . .”

Daisy’s head jerks up in alarm, giving both of them pause. “Something’s coming," she growls, “Basira, Martin, we need to go _now._ ”

Martin’s not going _anywhere_ , thank you, but he accepts the hand from Basira to haul himself to his feet. He quickly backs up because Daisy’s right, something's _definitely_ headed their way, and whatever it is chills the very air they breathe.

“Martin, wh—”

The glass doors open silently as a man steps out.

Martin’s heart stops. He knows what he's seeing but it can't be real, it _can't be_ , because if it is then . . . 

“Jon?”

It’s not Jon. It has his face but the eyes are _wrong_ — are there only two? — and they seem to shift every second, a terrible kaleidoscope of color that makes Martin’s head spin. He has to look away from them and take another step back. Daisy and Basira quickly do the same, their fear palpable.

 **“Martin Blackwood.”** The voice is Jon’s but it’s _not_ _Jon_. Couldn’t be, with how calmly it speaks. With how its voice is twined with others, a cascade of near inaudible whispers and ethereal echoes.

“What _are_ you?” Basira is stunned. Daisy is staring, lips parted and eyes wide.

 **“We . . .”** It pauses, considering for a moment. In between one beat and the next its shadow seems to warp with too many limbs, then back again. **“We were Jon.”**

Martin covers his mouth to bite back a sob.

 **“Now, we are not Jon.”** It raises a hand, marveling at it as it flexes each dark finger. **"But we are** **_of_ ** **him.”**

Daisy shakes her head, managing to grit out, “What the bloody hell does _that_ mean?”

The thing that is not Jon turns its head to her and she immediately pales. All those eyes, or — no, there’s two, but they contain a darkness more complete than any black hole. 

**“It means we don’t know.”** It speaks slowly, as if struggling with the whole concept of using a mouth and a tongue. **“When he came to us, presented himself and offered his body in union, we did as we always do: we claimed."**

It turns its gaze to Basira and she pales as well. 

**"All we have ever been is terror, fear, anguish. We were the product of these things the same way tsunamis are a force of water and motion.”** Its hand lowers more smoothly than it was raised. “ **Now we are not, and we don't know what that means."**

Martin falls on his hands and knees, shock rendering him utterly numb. Jon is gone. He's gone and this _thing_ wears his face and uses his voice and walks in his shoes and --

 **“We existed apart for as long as there were things that wished to separate us."** The thing that isn't Jon steps forward and Martin freezes, feeling the sheer _power_ of its presence, all that crushing weight and vast emptiness and smothering dark looming so near.

 **"He shouldn't have been able to tie us together, to bind us within a singular form. That which Knew all knew this."** There's a familiar _click_ that finally compels Martin to raise his head. In one hand is Jon's old lighter, the webbed pattern lit by its modest flame. **"It was impossible. Yet he willed it to be and so it was."**

"I . . . " Martin's voice comes out in a croak. He feels like he's shaking apart from the inside. "I don't . . . "

The lighter clicks shut. 

**"Look at me, Martin Blackwood."**

Martin does. He stares directly into those eyes that shift without end, that morph and glow and swallow all light and _so much_ more, and he thinks of nothing at all. 

The thing that isn't Jon kneels down so they're level, a shockingly human gesture. 

**"He summoned us all."** Its voice echoes despite being hardly above a whisper. **"And so we all came. We clamored for control of the Conduit. We cut, and choked, and burned, and bled; yet through it all his final thoughts were of three people. Three faces he fought alongside, who gave him the strength to confront us."**

Maybe it's Martin's mind playing tricks on him but a faint smile seems to creep along those lips. 

**"His last thought was of you."**

Something inside Martin _shatters_. His face twists in an ugly grimace and he wants so, so badly to scream. He doesn't make a sound.

 **"Then the impossible happened, and in his unmaking we unmade ourselves,"** it says, **"The final fear born from our ashes."** An expression Martin can't pin down flits across that angular face. **"We became our own Extinction."**

Martin's too numb to respond. He simply sits on his haunches, wondering distantly what sort of fever dream he tumbled into and when he'll finally wake up. Maybe he'll make pancakes with Jon in the morning, go for a walk along the pastures. Find some good cows. 

"Why?" His voice rings out hollow and his eyes stare but they don't comprehend. "Why tell us this?" 

**"Because he wished to."** The creature reaches out to take Martin's hand, placing the lighter in his gritty palm. 

Martin wants to drop everything and run, to tell this thing to _stay the hell away_ , but it's like trying to shout down a hurricane. There's no point. Its hand isn't burning or freezing or tipped in coarse tiny black hairs, it feels like regular flesh. The same hand that held his own, that grabbed for him in the Lonely, that curled into his shirt at night.

"The Web knew." Martin stares at the lighter, faintly warm from its previous owner's grip. It _knew_ and that makes Martin hate it the most. 

"Why would the Web want this?" Daisy steps forward slowly, eyeing the thing that isn't Jon. "Why would it want to _lose?"_

The smile on the creature's (god's?) face is far more noticeable now.

 **"Did it really lose?"** It seems to revel in that rhetoric before turning to face Daisy in full. **"Jon desired to help you. This desire is now ours."** It beckons and Basira immediately draws out her gun, aiming it at the creature.

" _Don't_ touch her." Her aim might tremble but her eyes are bright with fury. "Daisy, get behind m--" 

"It's alright, Basira." Daisy moves toward it with less hesitant steps. "If it wanted us dead we already would be."

Basira seems ready to protest, fighting an internal war before lowering her gun.

"You better be right about this," she growls, glaring at the thing that isn't Jon. Its smile only seems to soften in response. 

When Daisy is a mere handful of feet away, its attention swivels to her. Martin can see it, the way her blood flushes cold and sweat runs in rivulets from her temple. Everything about it screams _danger._

 **"Remnants of the Hunt linger in you. Traces of what was, withering and famished."** The creature bridges the distance between them but Martin can't remember it moving at all, it's simply there. Close enough to touch her. **"You’re scared."**

Daisy's choked little laugh barely escapes her lips. "Yeah," she says, "You can sure as hell say that." Her weary smile collapses more than falls. "I . . . I don't know what I'll be without it."

The smile on the creature's face fades in turn. It looks almost looks thoughtful, in a way, if it has the capacity for emotion at all. 

**"We don't know either,"** it says, raising a hand with unnaturally long fingers that bend in all the wrong ways, **"Though perhaps that means there is a chance for you to become better. Jon seemed to think so."**

Daisy's about to open her mouth when the hand plunges into her sternum and she lets out a soundless scream. Martin can almost _feel_ the visceral tugging of that unnatural grip in her, somewhere between her ribs and the frantic beating of her heart.

Basira's shout is full of terror as Daisy collapses on the ground, breathing hard and bruised but miraculously alive.

"Daisy . . .?" Martin's tone is soft as Basira rushes past him and to her side. Her eyes flutter as she comes to, pushing herself on her hands and knees.

"M'fine," she coughs, waving a hand in Basira's direction, "Just. Just give me a minute"

Martin wants to help her — no, that's not accurate. He wants to _want_ but his limbs are weighed down by anchors and his mind is full of fog. He can feel himself sinking. The Lonely is gone but in some sick way it's what he clings to now more than ever. He only realizes what he's doing when the thing that isn't Jon kneels in front of him.

 **"Martin."** There's something soft swirling in the multiple tones of that voice. **"We . . . Know the pain you're experiencing, right now."**

"Shut up." The words tear out of Martin guttural and gritty, harsh as sandpaper on his tongue. "I don't want to hear your excuses or your truths or your fucking lies. None of it matters, so just shut up and _leave me alone."_ He launches the lighter as far as he can, watching it bounce off concrete and skid into the gutter. 

Maybe he's just asking for the big bad Fear God to smite him at this point. He probably is. It doesn't, though. Instead it looks over him with those eyes that are too bright, too dark, too many colors, too _everything_ , and it gets up again.

 **"Jonah Magnus is still alive. There is work to be done,"** the thing that isn't Jon says, **"Regardless of how you feel about us we need you, Martin."**

 _We need you, Martin._ I _need you --_

"Stop." His whimper is a broken thing. "I'm so tired. Of all of this. I can't do this anymore."

"Martin . . . " He didn't help Daisy but Daisy tries to help him. She crouches at his side, expression pinched with sorrow. "Jon wouldn't want you to give up."

"Why does everyone suddenly think they know what Jon wanted?" Oh, he’s _seething_ now, vitriol apparently enough to get Daisy to inch back a bit. "'Jon wanted this, Jon wanted that.' He said he'd come back for us and yet he tossed himself on the goddamned sacrificial pyre! Left us alone and . . . And . . . "

A couple tears break free from the corners of his eyes, rolling down his cheeks. He sucks in a stuttering breath between his teeth.

"He left me alone."

Daisy's arms wrap around his shoulders and true to her namesake, she's gentle. He hates it. He needs it more than ever. He leans into her hold and watches his tears drip onto the street.

 **"He didn't leave you alone."** The thing that isn't Jon turns to face them again. **"And he never will. What remains of him here, in us, is still compelled to see this through to the end."** It tilts its head at him and for once its eyes aren't horrid, incomprehensible pits of darkness. They're just brown. They're just Jon's. **"Are you?"**

Martin wants to say no. He wants to be left alone to weep, to crumble into nothing, but he doesn't really have that luxury. The world's still a mess. Wasting Jon's sacrifice isn't an option. 

He rises to his feet with Daisy's help, scrubbing at his eyes with a grubby sleeve. 

"Okay," he says, sucking in another breath, "Okay. I am. Lead the way, uh . . ."

 **"Just call us Jon,"** it says.

Martin absolutely does _not_ want to call it that but any energy he had to fight has long since left him. If it weren’t for Daisy holding him steady he’d probably fall over again. He manages just barely to lift his head and meet the thi — _Jon_ ’s gaze. Patient, expectant, unknowable and yet deeply familiar. Somewhere in the hollow pit his chest has become, an ache flares that might never leave him again.

“Like I said,” Martin grits out, “Lead the way, _Jon._ ”

* * *

Most of their walk is paved in silence. All three of them burn with questions but the few they ask are unsatisfying at best. This thing, it — _they_ aren't forthcoming with most answers, and all only lead to more questions. 

"Do you remember being the Dread Powers?"

**"Vaguely."**

"Do you feel emotions like people do?"

**"We are still processing."**

"How are you going to actually _fix this_?"

**"We'll see after we deal with Jonah."**

It's maddening in its own way. Being in proximity of Jon is unsettling for any of them, and not just because of their familiar face. There's a primal _wrongness_ that emanates from them, an impenetrable barrier that no mortal mind can breach. 

It's a small blessing that the landscape seems to bend to Jon, and by extension them. Streets once rendered incomprehensible now flatten out. Sinkholes shrink and swallow themselves, leaving only dirt. The sky is painted in crimson brown tones but blessedly empty. 

This isn't what makes Martin stop in his tracks, however. No, it's the massive disfigured shape half a block down, laying broken over at least three smashed cars. 

The construct that came so close to killing them all now serves as scavenge. Those eyes once glinting with evil are finally as flat and dead as the rest of it. 

“Martin?” 

Martin sharply turns his head. Daisy’s brow is furrowed heavily with concern but as she tracks the path of Martin’s gaze they quickly shoot up in shock.

“Bloody hell, is that . . .?”

“It’s, uh.” Martin swallows, unable to look away. Blood black as oil leaks from the mouth embedded in its porcelain chest, spilling down the cars in thick, congealing rivulets. “It’s dead.”

 **“They’re all dead.”** Jon says this simply, hardly sparing the monstrous corpse a second glance. **“Without their masters to sustain them, they are nothing at all.”**

There’s a hint of callousness embedded in their tone. Martin finds that particularly puzzling but decides not to push the issue, all too happy to move on from this place. There’s a far more pressing question clamoring for attention.

“What about the avatars?" he asks, "The ones that used to be people?”

Jon hums as they continue their trek and it still sounds _off_ , like an instrument tuned wrong.

 **“We suspect that most of them will die as well.”** Even their footsteps don't seem to fully connect with the asphalt beneath them. **“Those that no longer inhabit intact bodies will certainly perish, if they haven’t already.”**

Martin thinks of Jude Perry melting in the sun. He thinks of Anabelle Cane wheezing out cobwebs and dust as she collapses, spiders fleeing from her open mouth. A shudder runs down his spine.

“And Elias?” Basira speaks up for the first time in what feels like hours. “Guess we can’t hope that bastard’s already kicked the bucket, can we?”

Jon shakes their head as they approach an odd if imposing structure. Martin has only vague memories of traversing it underground but it's unmistakable, where they're heading.

 **“He absorbed as much of us as possible so he could separate,”** they say, **“Become his own idea of a god.”**

Martin shudders again as Millbank Prison blooms open before them. He recalls a photo he saw of its blueprint once, how each cell block had been arranged like the petals of some horrible flower. Robert Smirke designed it with the sole purpose of sowing despair, which. Well. Mission accomplished, on that front.

Jon cranes their head to the monolith situated in Millbank’s center. A twisting tower rises far beyond the prison walls, stretching so high it's swallowed by atmosphere and cloud.

 **“Here,"** they say, motioning with their chin, **"This is Jonah’s true plan come to fruition.”**

“I don’t get it,” Daisy says, shaking her head, “If the other avatars rely on you like a car relies on a damn battery, how is he still alive? How did he do all of _this?_ ” 

**“The body of a single man is not enough to contain our power. Jonathan Sims was not a single man.”** The gates they approach appear like wrought iron at first, only wrought iron can’t sprout tendrils that end in points sharper than any blade. It’s as clear of a warning as any. **“Now, neither is Jonah.”**

A horrid epiphany strikes Martin with the force of a dumbbell to the head.

“He’s the entire prison, now, isn’t he?” he says, wrapping his arms around himself, “Like Jon . . . like Jon was the Archive.” He still finds himself choking around that name, struggling to push it past his lips. He has to swallow hard to breathe properly again.

Jon nods briefly. While their human companions slow to a stop, they approach the writhing gate without hesitation. The tendrils lash out to rend and tear, letting out horrid inhuman screeches as they do so, but the moment they nearly make contact they all disintegrate to ash.

 **“In a sense,”** Jon says, and Martin could _swear_ they are smirking, **“The Archive was merely a prototype. A surprisingly effective prototype, given our current state.”**

Martin’s not sure how to read their tone, if there’s bitterness or resentment in it at all. Maybe they don’t even know, themselves.

“The Institute was like a temple, wasn’t it?” he asks, eyeing the gate with no shortage of caution, “Sort of? I don’t . . . I don’t really get it, even now.” 

**“Worship is irrelevant, though the comparison is close enough.”** The gate groans as it’s pried open by an invisible force. The reluctance in it is audible, iron bending and warping in a futile attempt to resist. **“He houses echoes of what was inside this place, inside himself. Remnants he hopes to cradle and grow.”**

That force is not so invisible after all; thin strands of webbing lazily drift through the air, all of them attached to Jon. Deceptively delicate and unspeakably strong.

**“With time, perhaps he might even succeed.”**

Martin tries not to wince as the gate lets out one last miserable groan. The webbing doesn’t recede so much as simply fade into nothing, one last subtle glint of silver catching the light before they disappear. 

“Time we’re not bloody giving him,” Basira pipes up, being the first to swallow her trepidation and follow after Jon, “Come on. We’ve got a wannabe god to knock.”

Martin exchanges one last look at Daisy, who shrugs in turn. The message there is clear: _why the hell not?_

Why the hell not, indeed. Martin squares his shoulders and walks past the gate, trying to ignore the unmistakable sensation of being watched by far too many hidden eyes.

* * *

Deep within the twisting tower of the Panopticon, Elias Bouchard rests comfortably in his chair. He Watches as four unannounced guests slip past the gate, a wicked grin quirking his lips. He Knew they'd come the moment Jon stepped out of the Aperture a changed man — well. Changed, at any rate. A surprising development but perhaps not so devastating to his goals as he initially believed.

Absorbing Jon will be so much quicker than his previous plan, after all.

He rises from his desk, nails too long tipped with darkness and filth and ruin, letting out an amused hum as he makes his way to a window that does not exist. From it he can see Jon's face in far greater detail, the power threaded through every strand of their being, and those eyes.

Those eyes that swivel and meet his own, through the pane that isn't there.

"You truly are a generous guest," Elias says, "Bringing me the last of Jonathan's dear companions."

_**You will not touch them.** _

"A bold statement to make, Jon." There's a glass in his hand that wasn't there before, and he sips at something that used to be a fine merlot. "Tell me, who should I take first? I will be taking them all of course, I just want to know which of them will hurt the most."

**_You're certainly welcome to try._ **

The window shatters into ash and shadow, leaving Elias grinning in the dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to a friend of mine named nettlethistle for offering invaluable feedback as a beta. She's helped me out immensely with honing down the internal logic of this fic so that I get it right.
> 
> Oh, and brief explanation on the pronouns: initially Jon is seen as an "it" by the characters because they're trying to grasp what the hell Jon even is. The shift to gender neutral pronouns is there because, well. I mean. They're a Fear God, they're too cool for gender.


End file.
